


The Tutor

by beetle



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: All boy's school, Alternate Universe - High School, Football | Soccer, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-19 21:24:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2403353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Professor Istar needs a favor, and makes Oliver Orington an offer he can’t refuse. Thanks be to BadSkippy, from whom I borrowed the idea of a Hobbit!High school AU (http://archiveofourown.org/works/1088453), among other lovely concepts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Offer He Couldn't Refuse. . . .

**Author's Note:**

  * For [badskippy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badskippy/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: None, for now, though there may be sexy-times between a seventeen year old and a nineteen year old in future installments.

“Oliver, my lad . . . a moment of your time. . . .”  
  
Oliver Orington paused in the midst of his mad dash for the door with the other boys and looked back at his history teacher and smiled, just a tad frustrated. “I’ll be right there, Professor Istar.”  
  
“Oh, Lord, I wonder what he wants, now,” Oliver’s best friend since the beginning of ever, Bill, muttered under his breath, loud enough for only Oliver to hear, and he stifled a snicker. It wasn’t that Bill didn’t care for Professor Istar, it was that he didn’t entirely  _approve_  of their rather eccentric, field trip-prone teacher.  
  
Mostly because, and even Istar, himself, had noted this, Bill Baggins tended to wind up on the wrong side of “adventures” as Istar liked to call their field trips.  
  
“Probably nothing but to chat a little. He’s really quite interesting. You know . . . for a teacher,” Oliver said, smiling at the face Bill made. “Anyway, I’ll met you in the caf in a few minutes, and we can talk about your latest masterpiece of a poem.”  
  
Bill’s blue eyes lit up, as always when speaking about poetry or songs he’d written. “It’s bloody brilliant, if I do say so, myself! I can’t wait to show it to Professor Earendillion this afternoon!”  
  
Oliver chuckled and nudged Bill’s arm. “What I really like about you is your humility.”  
  
“I  _am_  humble to a fault,” Bill agreed cheerfully, and grinned. “Right, then. See you in the caf. I’ll save you a spot, of course.”  
  
“But of course.”  
  
And with another smile, Bill was hurrying out the door with the last of the boys, leaving Oliver with Professor Istar, who also smiled—far too benignly for Oliver’s liking. Istar’s usual smile was a crafty, mischievous sort of thing that invited one to smile along. This smile seemed to be meant to put Oliver at his ease.  
  
That  _couldn’t_  bode well.  
  
“Erm, you wanted to see me, Professor?” he asked, inching just a ibt closer to the tall, older man’s desk. Istar nodded, and kept smiling, lacing his long, worn hands in front of him just inches below his ridiculously long, Father Christmas beard. Oliver often wondered how, with a beard like that, Istar had ever managed to get a job at—well,  _anywhere_ , let alone the small, but prestigious and  _highly_  traditional West Arda Prep Academy for Boys.  
  
“Grew it after he got tenure,” was always Bill’s guess. But Oliver rather suspected the old man had come into his employment interview with that beard and would go to his maker with it.  
  
“Oliver, my lad,” Professor Istar began almost somberly, snapping Oliver out of his reverie about beards and the hiring practices of his school. “I know you and Mr. Baggins have a standing lunch appointment—indeed, I could hear his stomach growling most plaintively throughout the second half of my class—so I’ll come straight to the point, if you please.”  
  
“Alright,” Oliver said cautiously, wondering if this had anything to do with his grades. Last he’d heard, he was passing history with flying colors. Of all his studies, it gave him the least trouble, and he consistently got high marks in it. “Is this about my marks for this semester?”  
  
“No, no,” Istar dismissed almost jovially. “This is about me needing to ask you for a favor. A rather large one.”  
  
Relief that his marks were still okay was almost immediately replaced by wariness and caution, once more. “A favor?”  
  
“Yes, dear boy. One that requires some of your time and dedication, and no small amount of patience.” Istar paused and his mouth pursed just a bit somewhere under that facial hair. “The favor I would ask of you is on behalf of another student. One who is . . . not so keen on history as you are, and thus is not doing as well as he might, otherwise.”  
  
Oliver blinked, utterly confused, now. “I don’t follow you, sir.”  
  
Istar sighed. “I’m asking if you wouldn’t mind, perhaps for a few hours a week, tutoring one of your fellow students. Starting—well, as soon as possible.”  
  
Eyes widening, Oliver found himself leaning on Istar’s desk for support as the tension flowed out of him to be replaced by disbelief. “ _Me_? Tutor someone?”  
  
“Why, yes, my boy. You have the marks for it, and the aptitude. And, I sense, a genuine love for the subject that is unsurpassed by your peers.” Istar said, smiling again. His  _real_  smile, this time. Oliver started to smile back, then his brow furrowed.  
  
“But—I’ve never tutored anyone in my life! I wouldn’t even begin to know how!”  
  
Istar leaned back in his chair and opened his top right desk drawer, taking out a few stapled sheets of paper, neatly typed. He held them out to Oliver, who took them reluctantly, without looking at them. Instead he continued to gaze at his teacher in incredulity, waiting for an explanation.  
  
“That, is a sample study schedule and agenda I took the, er, liberty of drawing up for you, based on the other student’s strengths and weakness in history. If you follow that itinerary or something similar, I guarantee you, you  _will_  see results, sooner, rather than later,” Istar promised, and Oliver looked down at the sheets, flipping through them, noting that the student seemed, from what Istar had given Oliver as a guide, to be pants at English history and world history . . . though he did, from the papers unsubtle prompting, have an affinity for remembering the particulars of England’s many wars.  
  
 _So, what?_  Oliver thought with mild dismay.  _I’d have to tie everything I tutored him in to a war of some kind? Bloody _hell!  
  
He shook his head. “I don’t know, sir . . . I have A/V Club in the afternoons. . . .”  
  
“Surely not  _every_  afternoon? And the tutoring would really only require a few hours every week. An hour a day, every other day of the school-week, if you chose to do it that way.” Istar’s bushy brows drew together over his nose. “It’d be a favor not just for another student, but for me as well. One which I fully intend to repay.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“I’m certain a university-minded young man like yourself could always do with a glowing letter of recommendation to the colleges of his choice, could he not? One that focuses on not only such a young man’s scholarly efforts, but on his civic-minded generosity toward his fellow students.” Istar’s light blue eyes twinkled and Oliver, about to turn the old man down finally, firmly, hesitated.  
  
Scatty and strange Istar might be, but he was respected in his field. He’d published award-winning books and papers on historical topics both popular and esoteric, according to Oliver’s eldest brother. Beard or no beard, West Arda Prep had probably leapt at the chance to have him teach there.  
  
If such a person were to write Oliver a “glowing” letter of recommendation to university. . . .  
  
 _Think of the doors that would open—the scholarship opportunities that could practically pay my way through school, and then some! The people I could meet just on the strength of Istar’s name alone. . . ._  
  
Oliver sighed. He, like his eldest brother, had dreams of going to university.  Of securing a top-notch education without working himself to death like Dori had done. But the Oringtons didn’t, as a family, have top-notch education money. Not like the Bagginses. The only reason Oliver could afford to go to West Arda Prep was because Dori taught mathematics there, and Oliver, as a school-aged immediate family member, was allowed to attend for next to nothing.  
  
He’d be getting no such breaks when it came to university.  
  
 _Really, what’s three hours a week?_  Oliver asked himself, trying to tamp down his feelings of reluctance and misgiving, and psych himself up for the sake of his future. _Even if the boy I’m tutoring is a total plonker—a complete plank—I can tolerate him for three hours a week! It’ll keep me up on my own studies and, if nothing else, it’ll certainly be a valuable life-lesson!_  
  
Looking Istar in the eyes, Oliver  put on a game smile and said: “Alright, Professor. I’ll do it.”  
  
“Excellent, my boy!” Istar clapped his hands together and stood. He towered over Oliver, as he did most of the boys. His smile was equal parts wryness and relief. “Simply excellent. Do you think you could possibly start as soon as, oh, this afternoon?”  
  
“Well, I—” Oliver began to demur, but Istar had gone on without waiting for an answer.  
  
“The Audio/Visual Club doesn’t meet today, does it?”  
  
“Erm, no . . . it’s on Tuesdays and Thursdays, sir.”  
  
“And you don’t have any other afterschool activities lined up for today, do you? Another club, or a job, perhaps?”  
  
“No. . . .” Oliver said helplessly, feeling less and less like he’d volunteered, and more and more like he’d been drafted. “But—I’m sure I’d need time to prepare—to go over this itinerary and maybe make some flash-cards, and—”  
  
“Flash-cards?” A deep voice with a strong Scottish brogue said from behind Oliver, startling him and causing him to whirl around. “What am I? Bloody- _five_?”  
  
There, in the doorway, stood a literal wall of muscle, gazing down at Oliver from his height of six-foot-something-or-other, big arms crossed over his barrel of a chest. Because of his  build and despite his uniform, he looked like he was twenty-five instead of seventeen. His shaven head—probably as against the school rules and regulations as Istar’s Christmas beard—had his neck-tie, which all the boys were required to wear, tied around it, like a bandana. His face, tan and craggily handsome, with strong, prominent features, was set in a scowl and slight sneer as he gazed at Oliver with keen, dark green eyes.  
  
Behind Oliver, Professor Istar sighed. “Oliver Orington, meet your . . . tutee . . . Dwal—”  
  
“Dwalin Durinson,” Oliver said, nonplussed and chagrined, flushed and a-flutter for absolutely no reason. “I know who he is.”  
  
“Of course you do. Everyone does,” Dwalin said simply, without either hubris or pride. It was a simple statement of fact that, whether one followed West Arda’s football team or not,  _everyone_  knew who the gregarious troublemaker, Dwalin Durinson was. Him and that quiet, intense cousin of his, Thorin. Between the two of them, since coming to West Arda Prep last year, the school’d had more football victories than in its entire career. With Dwalin and Thorin as Forwards—and Thorin acting as team captain, this year—the team couldn’t put a foot wrong. “And you’d be my new tutor, eh?”  
  
Oliver glanced desperately at Istar, who shrugged slightly. Then he looked back at Dwalin Durinson with a sense of already-weary resignation. “That’d be me, alright.”  
  
“Hmph.” Dwalin gave Oliver a quick once over, before. “You barely look old enough to be out of primary school.”  
  
“I assure you that Oliver is old enough and more than competent enough to help you achieve your full potential regarding this class,” Istar said firmly, in a no-nonsense tone that made Dwalin’s face lose the scowl and sneer for something a little more contrite.  
  
“Right. Of course,” he said, quietly. Istar stepped forward, placing a hand on Oliver’s shoulder.  
  
“Mr. Durinson has been made aware that it is most imperative, for the sake of his continued participation in any and all afterschool activities—including football—that he bring his marks up for history class,” Istar said, ostensibly to Oliver, but looking at Dwalin Durinson all the while. “Let me reassure you, Oliver, that you will have his full cooperation in this venture. And remember, both of you, that I am here, to act as advisor, should either of you have need of me.  
  
“Now,” Istar’s smile was back and he let go of Oliver’s shoulder to clap his hands together again, briskly. “I believe you boys both have lunch scheduled for this next period, yes?”  
  
“Yes, sir,” both Oliver and Dwalin mumbled in tandem, shooting wary glances at each other.  
  
“Then I suggest you hop-to, before the period ends.”  
  
“But Professor—” Oliver began, not knowing what he was going to ask, but feeling quite unprepared to take on, of all his peers,  _Dwalin Durinson_. He didn’t feel prepared to engage the other boy in conversation, so different were the worlds they were from and the circles they moved in.  _Tutoring_  him seemed like the prospect of climbing Mount Everest.  
  
Istar, who’d been in the act of turning to the chalkboard, turned back to Oliver, that twinkle back in his eye as he smiled.  
  
“I promise you, Oliver, things will work out, in the end,” he said softly, so quietly, Oliver barely heard him.  
  
And then Istar was turning back to the board, gathering up his erasers and clapping them together so that a big cloud of chalk arose, causing Oliver—who had allergies—to cough and back away toward the door. In fact, he turned just in time to bump into Dwalin Durinson.  
  
“Steady-on!” the other boy said, putting out his hands to do the steadying. He grasped Oliver’s upper arms for a moment only, but it just so happened to be the moment Oliver looked up and met his gaze.  
  
Dwalin Durinson’s eyes widened as their gazes locked for precious milliseconds, and he looked quite startled—though surely not as startled as Oliver felt.  
  
“What—?” Dwalin began as he slowly let go of Oliver’s arms, and Oliver—shaking his head as if to clear it—barged his way past the taller boy, aware that the only reason he was able to was because Dwalin  _let_  him.  
  
“I have to get to lunch,” Oliver said hurriedly, as he squeezed out of the doorway Dwalin was still partially blocking, shivering as he brushed against the brawny Forward.  
  
“Wait—when’re you gonna tutor me?” Dwalin called after Oliver, who hurried down the hall, toward the back stairwell—he figured Dwalin was less likely to use the back way, and thus be following him all the way to the cafeteria—and thence to the caf and his waiting best friend.  
  
 _Bill’s not going to believe this!_  he thought in utter dismay.  _Because I certainly don’t!_  
  
“I’ll, uh, get back to you!” Oliver tossed over his shoulder, backpack jostling as he broke into a jog for the safety of the stairwell.  
  


TBC


	2. The Tutor 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver meets Bill for lunch and tells him about Istar's offer. Dwalin puts in an appearance, and Thorin is just like Heathcliff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: The possibility of sexy-times between a seventeen year old and a nineteen year old, in future installments.

“I was beginning to think Istar was going to keep you all day,” Bill said without looking up when Oliver flopped into the seat next to him. Then when he  _did_  look up, he frowned. “Why’re you out of breath? Did that scatty old menace  _chase_  you here?”  
  
“No,” Oliver huffed, placing his backpack on the table and taking a moment to catch his breath before digging for his lunch and elaborating. “But Dwalin Durinson nearly did.”  
  
“Dwalin Dur—that football player?” Bill’s wide, round eyes got wider and rounder. “Why? Did he—try to beat you up?”  
  
“Of course not,” Oliver said, removing the brown paper bag with his lunch. It already smelled delicious, like Dori’s famous chicken salad on fresh rye. And suddenly, Oliver was ravenous. “He wants—well, Istar wants me to, well, tutor him in history.”  
  
If possible, Bill’s eyes got even wider and rounder, and he bit off a chunk of carrot stick. He, also, brown-bagged it to lunch. Not to save money, like Oliver did, but because Belladonna, his mother, like Dori, made much tastier, healthier lunches than what the school served up. She and Dori frequently traded recipes and sent each other freshly made thises and thats. They were, in that bland, adult-way, almost as close as Oliver and Bill.  
  
“Sod me,” Bill said around a mouthful of carrot and shuddered. “You’re not going to say  _yes_ , are you? And actually tutor that ill-bred lout?”  
  
Oliver rolled his eyes. “He’s not actually ill-bred . . . he’s just . . . boisterous.”  
  
“Hmm. Quite a large word for such a small brain.” Bill snorted, gingerly running a hand over his carefully-tamed light-brown curls, which were brushed and gelled into almost-straightness, away from his face. He looked like a  _very_  young news anchor, to Oliver, who fought a grin at the thought.  
  
“Well, he may  _act_  that way, sometimes, but we don’t know for a fact that he’s, well. . . .”  
  
“Stupid?” Bill asked in a delicate tone that belied the bluntness of his word-choice.  
  
“Bill!” Oliver exclaimed, garnering a few glances at them from neighboring tables. As usual, Oliver and Bill sat alone at their corner table. “ _You_  never call anyone  _stupid_ —it’s, like, one of your cardinal rules! You wouldn’t even call that bully, Ian Bolg—and I’m fairly certain  _that_  one’s skull is bone all the way through—stupid that time he tried to eat that Plaster-of-Paris sandwich!”  
  
“Yes, well. There are exceptions to every rule,” Bill huffed, popping the last of that carrot stick in his mouth, then covering his mouth before speaking. He was always so posh and polite, that Oliver—who was anything  _but_  posh, yet who  _tried_  to be polite, and mostly succeeded—wondered how they’d ever become friends. Even as a small boy, Bill had been fanatically polite, neat, and calm . . . unlike Oliver (whom everyone, including himself, had called  _Ori_  because of a slight speech impediment that’d made it difficult for Oliver to say his own name) who’d been impetuous, hot-headed, and forever getting into fights with the larger boys who’d frequently bullied him and his best friend. “Dwalin Durinson is nothing but stupid, pointless trouble you don’t want to buy or borrow, Ori.”  
  
(And some people, like Bill,  _still_  had a tendency to slip and call Oliver  _Ori_ , prompting a blush every time it happened.)  
  
“That may very well be, but he’s worth a letter of recommendation— _glowing_ , no less—from Istar to any universities I want,” Oliver informed Bill, who made a face. One of commiseration. He shook his head disapprovingly, starting in on another carrot stick.  
  
“That’s bloody coercion, is what  _that_  is,” he muttered, his brow furrowing. “Istar’s using you—no doubt to keep that plank-headed knob from being kicked off the football team because of his poor grades.”  
  
Oliver didn’t deny it. “True. But Dwalin doesn’t seem to actually be a bad sort, like Ian. He’s just very focused on football. He never beats anyone up or bothers anyone. Just goes about being . . . Dwalin Durinson.”  
  
“And expecting the whole world to fall in love with him because of it. He and that cousin of his are  _so_  overrated,” Bill groused, glaring down at his sandwich. Oliver grinned and elbowed Bill.  
  
“You’re only saying that because you’re still embarrassed that you fancied Thorin, last year,  _Bilbo_. Admit it.”  
  
“Urgh, don’t call me that, Ori. You know I  _hate_  that nick-name. It makes me feel as if I’m four years old again, and getting hassled by Ian on the playground.”  
  
Oliver laughed a little. “I swear, that’s the only clever thing he ever said whilst mocking you. Granted, it made no sense, but it certainly seemed to push your buttons!”  
  
“It wasn’t even funny! He just stuck a  _bo_  on the end of my name and sing-songed it for hours at a time! ' _Bilbo-Bilbo, little baby Bilbo!_ ' Utterly ridiculous . . . and—and—”  
  
“Stupid?” Oliver asked, quirking one ginger eyebrow. Bill rolled his eyes, then they both started laughing at the same time. “Honestly, Bill,” Oliver eventually went on, “I think he was pulling your pigtails. He had a crush on you and that was how he dealt with it.”  
  
“Heavens forfend,” Bill said, shuddering. “And speaking of, I did  _not_  fancy Thorin Durinson, I just . . . thought he was fit-looking. Particularly in his football uniform.”  
  
“And you began reading every book on football ever written—even watched the World Cup. You, who’s never met a sport he  _did_  like.” Oliver elbowed his best friend again. “And you were right, you know? Thorin Durinson  _is_  fit.  _Especially_  in his uniform.”  _Though not as fit as his cousin_ , Oliver thought, quite out of nowhere, and blushed, aiming his eyes down at his own sandwich and hoping Bill, keen-eyed  _Bill_  didn’t notice.  
  
But Bill was waxing anti-poetical about the Cousins Durinson, and wasn’t even looking at Oliver. Instead he was staring half-way across the cafeteria, at the dead center tables, where the football team held court—among them, one of the loudest and most noticeable, was Dwalin Durinson. He seemed to be in the midst of telling a story, and was gesturing broadly as he told it, the focus of all eyes within ten feet of him.  
  
As it was, Oliver had a bit of a time taking his eyes off other senior. But he did eventually, turning to look at Bill, and when he did, he noticed Bill’s tirade against the Cousins Durinson, had degenerated into stutters and repeated imprecations against  _planks and ruffians_. And Bill was staring  _hard_  at Dwalin.  
  
 _No, he’s not_ , Oliver thought, carefully following Bill’s line of sight.  _He’s staring at_ Thorin _. Not that anyone could blame him. After Dwalin, he’s easily the best-looking guy at this school. . . ._  
  
Thorin sat, as always, quietly, off to the side of his team, eating his lunch as he listened with what seemed to be half an ear, to Dwalin’s story. He looked like the brooding, troubled, and handsome heroes of the Bronte novels Bill loved so dearly. Like Heathcliff, straight off the moors, his dark hair tousled, as if he’d been running absent fingers through it, his face set in the slight frown of the terminally pensive. His dark blue eyes scanned the cafeteria and landed with unerring speed and accuracy on Oliver. . . .  
  
Oliver quickly glanced away, blushing again, and took another bite of his sandwich, which he didn’t even taste. When he risked a glance at Bill, Bill was still staring almost challengingly right across the caf, no doubt at Thorin, who was—  
  
—staring right back at Bill, that pensive look on his face lifting some as he continued to meet Bill’s gaze.  
  
Their stares seemed to be locked, and Oliver glanced from boy to boy, wanting to elbow Bill yet again and ask what in the  _bloody_  hell was going on, a staring contest?  
  
And then, just as the tension between Thorin and Bill grew thick enough to cut with a plastic knife of the sort given out by the school caf, Dwalin said, very loudly, very clearly: “Eh, Thor? She was right brassed-off, wasn’t she?”  
  
And that seemed to startle Thorin out of his staring contest with Oliver’s best friend. Thorin turned his eyes to Dwalin, but not before Dwalin, clearly quick on the uptake today, had quickly followed Thorin’s gaze to Oliver and Bill’s table, where both Oliver and Bill sat staring straight back at them.  
  
Dwalin’s brows drew together as his green gaze met Oliver’s. Oliver blushed, but didn’t look away. Instead, he forced himself to smile. Dwalin nodded back, almost smiling, himself—then suddenly stood up and grabbed his lunch tray. As several of his fellow team members stood to follow him, he made a halting gesture and shook his head no, before striding away from his adoring clique. . . .  
  
. . . and straight toward Oliver and Bill’s lonely little corner of unpopularity.  
  
“Oh, blimey he’s coming over here,” Oliver groaned, looking away from the jock approaching them and at Bill, who was still staring off Thorin-ward. “ _Bill_!”  
  
“What? What?” Bill asked, starting as if he’d been knocked out of some reverie. He looked at Oliver, frowning. “What’s wrong, now?”  
  
“Dwalin Durinson at three o’clock!” Oliver gritted out through clenched teeth “For God’s sake!”  
  
“Well, bugger me,” Bill said in that polite, posh way of his, and Oliver snorted reflexively, but managed to stifle his nervous giggles as Dwalin stopped at their table.  
  
“Er. ‘Lo,” he said, and Oliver shivered, looking up and up—and  _up_ —over the landscape of muscular chest that the uniform button-down shirt did little to hide, till he was staring into Dwalin’s green eyes.  
  
“Hello,” Oliver said quietly, rather weakly, pasting on another lame, ridiculous smile. Dwalin returned it with a much nicer one.  
  
“Er. It’s Oliver, right?” Dwalin asked and Oliver nodded once, taking a bite of his sandwich so as to have something to do that wasn’t fidgeting.  
  
“Erm, yes. Oliver Orington,” he said around a mouth full of once more tasteless sandwich, then turned crimson as he realized he was talking with his mouth full, something his brother and Bill had trained him out of over ten years ago.  
  
He swallowed his only partly-chewed bite and tried on another smile. He could only hope he didn’t have too much food smeared on his teeth. “What’s up?”  
  
Dwalin made a face not unlike Bill’s, and placed his tray on the table before sitting across from Oliver. His knees bumped Oliver’s under the table, and Oliver’s face lit up like Rudolph’s nose.  
  
“It’s about this tutoring business,” Dwalin said, seeming completely oblivious to Oliver’s blush. But Oliver could feel  _Bill’s_  eyes on him, and knew his friend would have something to say, indeed, when Dwalin left. “Istar’s saying it need only be for a few hours a week—and I’m on board with that—it’s just that I have practice most days after school, and . . . well, I guess I could still do it Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, like he suggested, but it’d have to be around six in the evening.”  
  
Oliver’s heart fell for some reason. “Six is when Dori and I have dinner together.”  
  
“Oh . . . is she your, er, girlfriend?” Dwalin asked, clearing his throat and frowning. Oliver blinked, then laughed, so long and loud that heads turned once more. And next to him, Bill muttered something that sounded like:  _Football-brained clot-head_.  
  
“No, no,” Oliver hastened to say when his laughter had died down a bit, leaving him rather suddenly light-hearted and relieved. And Dwalin, too, looked relieved for some reason. “Dori’s my eldest brother. Um, his real name’s Dewey . . . Dewey Orington. He teaches here.”  
  
Dwalin’s bushy brows crept up to his nonexistent hairline. “Professor Orington’s your  _brother_?”  
  
Oliver nodded, and Dwalin smiled a little. “No wonder you’re so smart.”  
  
“Oh, I’m not smart like Dori. If you’d ever seen me in maths class, you’d know.” Oliver turned red, but only a little, this time. "Anyway, six is out, but we’re done by seven. . . .”  
  
“Perfect!” Dwalin exclaimed, nodding his satisfaction. “Shall we do my place, or yours?”  
  
“Erm. . . .” Oliver glanced at Bill, who merely shrugged and looked away, as if to say:  _It’s your mess._ You _clean it up_. “I suppose my place?”  
  
Dwalin grinned. “Your place, it is.” He stood up with his tray—had just turned away, when he turned right back to Oliver and Bill. “When d’ya want to start? Istar thinks we should start tonight . . . just so happens practice was moved from this afternoon to Thursday, so if you want, we can get a leg up right after school lets out.”  
  
“That sounds—er, okay?” Oliver said, glancing at Bill again, who merely stared off Thorin-ward again and sighed.  
  
“Brilliant!” Dwalin’s grin was so toothy and infectious, Oliver returned it helplessly, no doubt goofily. “Er—if you want, I can give you a lift home from school—and you can show me where you live so I don’t get lost on the way there.”  
  
Oliver laughed anxiously, his face heating up. “Oh, it’s impossible to get lost. It’s so close to the school I usually just walk it.”  
  
Dwalin made a face that was almost pouty. “That must be terrible. Between that and having a teacher for a brother, you must never get to skip on bad weather days.”  
  
“You don’t know the half of it,” Oliver muttered, thinking of the time Dori had walked him to school during that awful snowstorm—dragged him out of the house extra early, just so they’d make it on time, despite the weather—only to discover the school was closed due to the same inclement weather. “I’ve never missed a day of school once in my life.”  
  
Dwalin blinked. “What?  _Never_?!”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Bloddy hell, that’s scary!” Dwalin said, shuddering, but laughing. “Well, but I guess that makes you the best person to tutor me in all the stuff I don’t know about history . . . never missing a day means you must know it all!”  
  
“And then some,” Oliver said with a straight face, then—daringly—winked. Dwalin winked back and laughed, giving Oliver a quick once-over that nevertheless left Oliver blushing.  
  
“We’ll see you at last bell, in front of the school, then, Mr. Know-it-all.”  
  
“Indeed, Mr. Durinson.”  
  
And with that, Dwalin turned and walked away. Oliver’s eyes followed him every step of the way back to his tablesful of friends. He really knew how to  _wear_  a school uniform. The fabric pulled in all the right ways, and in all the right places. . . .  
  
“You’re staring at his arse,” Bill leaned close to whisper, and Oliver shook his head distractedly.  
  
“No, I’m not.”  
  
“He said even as he continued to stare at the aforementioned arse . . . and the ass to whom it belonged.”  
  
Dwalin sat back at his table, next to Thorin, grabbing his cousin in a headlock-cum-hug that Thorin suffered with admirable grace before punching Dwalin in the thigh. Dwalin laughed and, after a tight squeeze, let go. He said something to Thorin which made the other boy roll his eyes. When he replied, the entire table laughed raucously.  
  
At last Oliver was released from his staring. He turned his eyes toward a frowning Bill and smiled. “I’m sorry, what were we talking about?”  
  
Bill rolled his eyes. “I can’t imagine,” he said, all exasperation. Oliver, still wearing that dreamy smile—though it’d turned into a mischievous grin—whispered: “Weren’t we talking about how fit the Durinsons looked in their football uniforms?”  
  
“Hmph,” Bill said—actually  _said_ —and Oliver laughed. “What? There’s nothing wrong with thinking they’re both ridiculously sexy in uniform. Or out of it. Er—by which I mean wearing their school uniforms, instead,” Oliver said quickly, blushing again. But it was too late to walk it back. He was already wondering what Dwalin Durinson looked like naked.  
  
Suddenly, it was very warm in the cafeteria. Abominably so. Oliver fanned himself with his hand.  
  
“Having a hot-flash?” Bill snarked, observing Oliver.  
  
“Sod off,  _Bilbo_.” But there was no venom in Oliver’s voice, or the two finger-salute he gave his best friend. He was too busy fighting the urge to look at the football players’ tables.  
  
Bill, however, was having no such struggle. “Hmph,” he said again. “Thorin’s looking at us, again. Probably wondering why his bone-brained cousin came over here to speak to a couple of losers like us,” Bill said ruefully. Oliver, rather alarmed by the level of bitterness in his friend’s normally congenial voice, turned to Bill to find the other’s blue eyes steady on his sandwich as he took a bite.  
  
“Bill . . . what’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing, Ori—I mean  _Oliver_.” Bill faked up an almost convincing smile as he glanced quickly at Oliver, then away. “Nothing, just . . . you understand, right? Why it wouldn’t do to get infatuated with the Durinsons, right?”  
  
Oliver blinked and looked down. “I’m not infatuated with Dwalin. I just think he has a nice arse.”  _And a nice everything else to go with it_ , Oliver silently added.  
  
“Well, good. So long as it doesn’t go beyond that. That way lies madness, trust me,” Bill muttered, that same rueful tone back in his voice. Now, Oliver’s interest was peaked. It sounded as if Bill was speaking from experience, but that couldn’t be possible, right? If he  _had_  been speaking from experience, surely Oliver would have heard about it by now, right? They told each other everything, from the time they were four, and didn’t know what secrets even were, till now, thirteen years later. In fact, Bill’s dad was fond of saying:  _Scratch Billy, and Ori will bleed._  
  
But for the first time in thirteen years, Oliver had the vague feeling there was something Bill hadn’t told him. Something  _big_.  
  
“Bill . . . what’s all this about? You sound as if you’ve got first-hand knowledge, here,” Oliver said quietly, and Bill shook his head, smiling lamely, but gamely.  
  
“Of course, I’ve not. But we’ve both seen enough and read enough to know that it’s not like it is in the movies, yes? That guys like the Durinsons  _do not_  fall for guys like _us_?” Bill’s autumn-blue eyes were strangely hard and insistent. Enough that Oliver automatically nodded, in an attempt to placate his clearly upset friend.  
  
“I know,” he said, shrugging, “but a bloke can dream, can’t he?”  
  
“Hmph,” Bill said for a third time, turning his gaze briefly to the football players’ tables, then back to his sandwich. “Just so long as dreams don’t start coloring reality.”  
  
Oliver rolled his eyes. “And when have I ever let it go  _that_  far?”  
  
Snorting, Bill smiled, for real, this time. “Oh, I dunno. Perhaps that time Ian pushed me down when we were eight, and you chased him across the schoolyard with that Swiss Army Knife Nori had got you, and told you not to tell Dori about? And Ian was screaming bloody murder and crying his eyes out as you tore after him around the schoolyard screaming: ‘I’m not afraid of you, Ian Bolg! I’ll give you a taste of Swiss iron, right up your jacksie!’”  
  
Oliver snorted and blushed, trying to stifle more giggles. “I don’t seem to, er, recall that incident,” he lied.  
  
“Yes, well, I  _do_. Nearly got yourself tossed out of school for  _that_  stunt.”  
  
“Surely you’re not equating . . . me making a point to another student while wielding a small utility blade to . . me simply  _noticing_  Dwalin Durinson’s perfect arse?”  
  
“Would I do that?” Bill asked seriously, but there was a twinkle in his eyes that was positively Istar-ish when he shot Oliver a quick glance. Oliver grinned, and turned his attention back to his lunch.  
  
“He’s just got a divine arse, is all I’m saying. It’s not like I want to marry him.”  
  
“Ugh . . . count me out of  _that_  wedding!”  
  
Oliver snorted again, and snuck glances at the football players’ central tables. He found that a certain pair of hunter-green eyes was on him, seeming to be almost puzzled despite their overall canny gaze. Oliver risked waving, a small, barely noticeable thing, so that Dwalin could pretend not to see it if he chose. (Oliver and Bill were, it had to be admitted, worse than losers. They were  _nobodies_.  _Persona non grata_  among their year-mates. Bill, in spite of his family’s money, and Oliver possibly _because_ —at least in part—of Dori’s employment at the school.)  
  
But Dwalin, far from pretending he didn’t see the wave, smiled again and waved back.  
  
Oliver smiled to himself, feeling like a man with a delicious secret. One that he dared not share, for its newness and fragility wouldn’t stand up to direct scrutiny.  
  
So he turned his attention and his gaze back to the rest of his lunch and resolved to put Dwalin Durinson out of his mind for the moment—and never mind that he had a private tutoring session with the boy in less than three hours. And if Bill noticed that Oliver’s contributions to the rest of their conversation—mostly about homework—were monosyllabic in nature, he had the good grace not to call Oliver on it.  
  


TBC


End file.
